Mittman, Stephanie (19 page)

When
the minister didn't follow her, Noah made his apologies to Risa and Charlie and
headed for the door himself, complaining that the hall had become so stuffy he
thought a bit of fresh air was in order. Risa touched his arm and squeezed
gently. "I doubt," she said wisely, "that you'll find it much
cooler outside."

She
was leaning against a tree when he spotted her. The band had started up again
and only one or two men, their cigars fouling the night, remained outside in
the cool evening air. He strolled up to her and put his good hand on the tree
trunk. With his bandaged one, he tapped her lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh!"
she said in surprise. "Mr. Eastman. What are you doing out here?"

He
was tired of the chase. The dreams and the desires were already overwhelming,
but the moonlight on that angelic face pushed him over the edge.

"I
think you know," he said. The tips of his fingers extended beyond the
gauze of his bandage and he touched her cheek with them, only to find it was
softer even than in his dreams. He tipped her chin back and let his lips graze
her own. He had meant to do only that. He had meant to stop right there. He had
meant only to show her his intentions.

He
had certainly not planned to let the kiss deepen, to let his lips press hard
against her own and open them to let his tongue play against the softness. He'd
never planned on taking that full bottom lip between his teeth for even a
moment, never planned to capture the sides of her face in his hands and stroke
her cheeks until neither one of them could draw a breath.

And
it took every ounce of will he had to finally release her, especially when he
realized her small hands were actually clinging to his lapels, pulling him
closer still to her trembling body.

"We
can't do this," she said, shaking her head as if arguing with herself.
"I'm marrying Miller Winestock. Surely you must know that. I don't know
why I let you ... how I could have—"

"Tell
me," he said, his hands covering hers so that even if she wanted to, she
couldn't let go of his jacket. "Does the minister kiss you like
this?" He let his lips brush her temples, his breath against her cheeks as
he spoke.

She
stiffened and tried to back away from him, but the tree was behind her. It only
took her tightness to make him back away enough to give her the room she
wanted. "The minister doesn't kiss me," she said with her chin held high.
"He respects me."

"And
is that what you want?" he asked, his hand brushing back the hair that
blew across her face, capturing a strand, and tucking it behind her ear.
"Just to be respected? Or do you want to be loved?"

A
crowd of people moved outside, signaling the end of another set of music. Noah
backed up for propriety's sake, though he would have liked more than anything
to pull Annie to his side and tell the throngs of people he was madly, wildly
in love with her. He thrust his good hand deeply into his pocket and watched
the emotions that crossed her face as she tried to compose herself. He saw the
confusion he'd caused, and he saw the strong chin set determinedly.

"Sissy?"
They both heard the minister call plainly. "Sissy Morrow, are you out here?"

"And
I wouldn't call you Sissy," he said, in nearly a hiss. "You're not
merely several people's sister, dear though they all are to you. You are a
woman in your own right. If you would only allow it, you would be Annie, my
Annie. You will always be my Annie."

He
turned and walked away, his hand still in his pocket.

"Over
here, Miller," he heard her say.

"Can
you come inside and help with the punch?" he asked.

The
last thing Noah heard, as he made his way to his buggy and climbed in, was
Annie agreeing to go inside and serve everyone else. But despite what his ears
might be telling him, he could still taste her on his tongue, still feel the
tingle where his lips had touched hers. He had the satisfaction of knowing that
she surely must be feeling it too. In the darkness he began to whistle.

She
liked Shakespeare.

Annie
fed the chickens,
with Willa tagging along behind her and asking
questions that Annie answered by rote. She gathered up the eggs, counting as
she did, but in the end had no idea how many she had put into her basket. She
milked Harry and couldn't tell Willa how the cow came to have a man's name.
Harry was fairly old—she just didn't remember.

But
the feel of Noah Eastman's lips against her own,
that
she remembered as
if he were still pressed against her, the old oak tree supporting her when her
knees began to buckle. Her mouth still tingled with the memory of his warm
tongue and his foreign taste. And more strange than the tang of his mouth was
her reaction to it. Even now she felt a clutch of excitement deep in her
stomach, a rush of warmth that coursed lower and lower until she was aware of
her femininity in a way she had never been before.

For
a moment she considered the possibility that she might be in love.

"Sissy,
watch where you're walking!"

Annie
felt the squish of manure beneath her well-worn boots and hoped the leather
would hold up to yet another hard scrubbing. Coming down from the clouds of
last night's Harvest Social, she took a good look around her. Edwina was eyeing
her angrily, impatient for her turn to be milked. The barn smelled rancid from
the damp weather and the fact that Bart hadn't raked it out over the weekend.
She was up to her ankle in cow dung, which clung to the edge of her skirts like
a frilly brown ribbon of muck.

The
egg basket, which Willa had been swinging as they did the chores, contained as
many broken eggs as whole ones by now. That would cost her, because her egg
money, along with her butter money, was nearly as important to the farm's
income as their crop. This year, with the drought, it was the egg and butter
money that would probably see them through the winter.

Two
chickens ran into the barn, chased by a rooster who hollered at them in his
randiest voice. What was he telling those chickens? That their feathers looked
liked baked bread? That they turned a rooster's brains to mush?

Her
laughter rang out in the barn like a madwoman's. She laughed and laughed until
her sides ached. She clutched at them and laughed some more. Willa stared at
her wide-eyed, her eyebrows lifting higher and higher, until she finally
dropped the egg basket and ran from the barn with a shriek.

By
the time Bart, with Willa trailing skittishly behind him, found Annie, she was
at the pump scrubbing the hem of her dress, her shoes off, the laughter gone
from her lips.

"You
all right?" Bart asked. Her nod didn't satisfy him. He lifted her chin and
searched her face.

"I'm
fine, Bart. Something just struck me funny, that's all." She saw Willa
peering around the bulk of her brother and smiled. "Sorry if I scared you.
Sometimes I think sixteen years of farming has left me with manure for
brains."

"Don't
look like you'll be marryin' the reverend a minute too soon," Bart said.
Willa whispered something in his ear and he patted her gently and nodded.
"Willa's real sorry about them eggs."

Annie
figured the broken eggs would have brought her about two dollars down at
Hanson's. In her mind she had already settled on the fabric she was going to
buy with the money, as well as the pattern she would use to make an elegant
black dress that would make Miller proud. She shrugged at Bart as if to say
there was nothing to be done about the eggs.

"Maybe
they ain't all broken," Bart said softly. He nudged Willa toward the barn
and she carefully picked her way there, skirts raised to avoid puddles, while
he watched her every move.

"Don't
let her worry about it," Annie said. "It ain't important."

Bart
sat down on the stump near the trough and shook his head. "We got a baby
comin'," he said, "or I'd give you the money myself, Sissy, I swear I
would."

"The
hens'll lay more eggs, Bart. Don't go worryin' yourself. And don't go worrying
Willa, neither. The poor girl's got enough to learn about living on a farm
without her lessons including the wolf at the door."

"You
know, Sissy," Bart said, laying a hand gently on his sister's shoulder,
"you're gonna make a fine minister's wife. Better than old Elvira
Winestock ever was. Miller's lucky to be gettin' you."

Annie
looked down at the muddy bottom of her skirts. The brown water had crept upward
and soaked her petticoat as well. Her hands were wet and smelly and she knew
she'd have to soak them in vinegar to get rid of the odor and get the manure
out from under her nails. When she raised her head she saw clouds on the horizon.
"Not half so lucky as I am to be gettin'
him,"
she told her
brother. "Not by half."

***

"Look,"
Noah told Ethan as the men stooped by the furnace in the low-ceilinged basement
of Noah's farmhouse. He held out the worn piece of furnace pipe for Ethan to
examine. "The pipe's worn through at the back side. The metal's thick
enough, but it's soft. That made it easier to bend so it would fit, but it made
the metal weak right where the strongest heat would be." He turned the
pipe over and over in his hand, holding it up to the pale light that came
through the small window near the ceiling.

"I
don't know much about furnaces," Ethan admitted. "Are you saying that
the fire burned through the metal? That don't make sense. Furnaces are made of
metal. It can't burn."

"There's
all different kinds of metal," Noah explained. "And each metal has a
different melting point. You can burn right through a tin pan on an iron stove.
And some metals are softer than others. The man who installed this furnace used
a pipe metal soft enough to hammer into shape." He let the light fall on
the dents he had found and traced them with his finger so that Ethan could see
them.

"Well,
don't they do that with horseshoes?"

What
were they teaching the kids in Van Wert? This kind of stuff was basic science.
There wasn't a child in Johnstown who couldn't have explained it to Ethan, Noah
thought. "Heat," he said with a sigh. "Bending a hard metal
takes heat. This was done with a hammer. The man who installed it must have
thought the thimble would cover the weakened area and protect the ceiling from
catching fire."

"So?"

"So
the thimble wasn't long enough to do the job. So if I hadn't happened to be
checking the furnace and getting it ready for the winter, the first time I
fired it up the heat would have broken through the pipe and the wall would have
caught on fire. That's so." And my girls could be dead before I'd have
even been able to react, he thought.

"Furnaces
are dangerous things," Ethan agreed. "That's why we ain't got one. At
least, that's what Bart says, though I think he's just too cheap to put one in.
You know, last year the Kellys were burned outa house and home when their coal
pile caught fire and burned. Smelled that fire clear over to our place."
The sound of a child crying carried down the stairs. "Lost their littlest
one, Beth Ann, in it too."

The
thought of a dead child sent shivers up Noah's arms. "Sounds like Julia
again," he said, as he looked up toward the ceiling. "Guess I better
see what the trouble is."

Ethan
put a restraining hand on Noah's thigh, urging him to keep his seat. "Kids
cry, Noah," he assured him. "It's part of growin' up and learnin'
that the world ain't always the perfect place their daddies tell them it
is."

"I
hate it when they cry," Noah admitted. "If their mother were
here—"

He
stopped himself. Their last fight had been over letting Julia cry. The baby had
been only a month old. Noah had come home and heard the baby crying and gone to
see what was wrong. She lay in a wet diaper in the crib his father had made for
their first child, Hannah.

"Wylene?"
He'd run to their bedroom and found her reading a dime novel on their bed,
still in her nightgown though it was late afternoon.

"Hm?"
she said without lifting her eyes. "You home already?"

"Wylene,"
he said as patiently as he could, "the baby needs changing and nursing.
Couldn't you hear her crying?"

"I'm
not deaf," she answered. "I knew you'd be home before too long to see
to her."

"And
am I supposed to nurse her too?" he asked. "Wylene?" Still she
didn't look up. "Where's Hannah?"

"Hm?"
she said again.

The
dam inside him burst then. He grabbed the book from his wife's hands and threw
it across the room. Like an old cow she blinked at him without comprehending.
Beneath her pendulous breasts were two wet spots, as though Mother Nature had
responded to their daughter's cries without Wylene's knowledge. In the four
weeks since Julia's birth Wylene had gone from Lydia Pinkham's Compound through
everything on the druggist shelves and had wound up taking so many doses of
Hostetter's Bitters she could hardly walk straight. At forty-four percent
alcohol it was no wonder she didn't care about the girls she had brought into
the world.